


Pick Me Up

by BadNewsForBrainWork



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 08:57:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadNewsForBrainWork/pseuds/BadNewsForBrainWork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oneshot: It's Christmas time, three years after Sherlock's death and there's only one thing that John wants for Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pick Me Up

I can always hear his voice in my dreams, but I can never see his face. It's something that really bothers me. When I'm awake, I can recall his face perfectly. Every detail is still in pristine condition. Those eyes, translucent and pale blue, squinting in frustration, or thought. I was never sure which. Then, there were those lips, the exact curve of his smile, his frown, that grimace. The line of his jaw, those beautiful cheekbones, his pale skin, it's all etched in my mind. A handmade replica of the face that I miss the most is all it is.

But in those dreams, I can never see it. It's a painting, except all of the colors have run together to produce one giant, muddy mess. There is nothing but the voice. It deeply upsets me. I wake up screaming, clutching the pillow next to me for comfort, cold sweat dripping from my brow. I am broken. I have lost everything.

 

 

Molly snaps her fingers, making me jump a bit. She gives me a stern look, something that's not ordinary for her. I laugh nervously, grabbing my mug shakily as she continues to stare at me.

"I'm sorry, Molly. I didn't get much sleep last night. I'm feeling a bit tired." I can feel a yawn coming on as I'm speaking. When it finally passes, I gulp down the coffee in front of me. It's grown a bit too cool for my liking. I should have been paying more attention. I scoot the chair out a bit, signaling to Molly that I'm leaving.

"John," she starts and then pauses, a look of worry crossing over her face, "Please stay. It's not healthy for you to go back to the flat and stay cooped up all day." I freeze myself, looking at her genuinely for the first time during this little get together. She has dark circles under her eyes and wrinkles are beginning to form at the corners of her mouth. She does frown often. I know that she's worried about me, but I'm just fine. Well, I'm not fine. I'm stable. There is a difference.

"Please, Molly, I just want to get back and rest. I'm tired. I haven't slept." I try to reiterate the point so that she understands. She sighs, standing and grabbing her purse from beside her. She's thinner than I remember. Then again, so am I.

"Alright. But John, can you promise me something?" Her tone implies that it's a promise I may not be able to keep.

"What is it?"

"Stay strong. Don't forget that. Everything will be alright." These words make me feel sick to my stomach. I catch myself glaring in her direction and quickly nod, rubbing the back of my neck.

"Yeah… you know that I will…" I can tell by her expression that she's not convinced, but she gives me a small smile and wave before walking briskly out the café door. I follow suit, throwing my coat and scarf on as I head out into the cold winter night.

The city is no different than usual. The shop windows are full of Christmas displays. I've nearly forgotten Christmas for the last three years. I don't wager that it'll be any different this year. I see all the people shopping for gifts and it gives me a slight pang of anxiety. I need to buy presents for everyone. I had completely forgotten last year. This year, I hadn't even bothered with a Christmas tree. I was not feeling particularly festive. I remember that I used to love Christmas. Now, I can barely bring myself to leave the flat during the season.

I absent-mindedly wander back to the flat, only to find the familiar sleek, black car of Mycroft Holmes parked out front. He's been visiting quite a lot lately. He is much more concerned about me than anyone else is. Part of it is guilt, I think. He feels somewhat responsible for everything that transpired three years ago. I can't place what else it is. Everyone knows how I felt about Sherlock Holmes, even if I don't say it. There's still something else, though. Mycroft has managed to keep me guessing.

I already know that he will be waiting upstairs. I take the steps two at a time, excited for the promise of warmth. As I turn the corner, I spot him immediately. He's sitting in the armchair, reading the paper. He doesn't look up when I come in.

"John," he says quietly to acknowledge me. He says nothing else. I peel off my coat and throw it on one of the dining room chairs haphazardly, along with my scarf. I take a seat across from him, looking at him quizzically.

"There must be some reason you're here." He looks up from the paper and then slaps it gently against his crossed legs, lips curling into his usual smile. I cross my arms over my chest, deeply sighing.

"I've been told you're not sleeping very well. I also heard you quit going to see your therapist." The way he says it is very incriminating. I feel like a child caught stealing cookies from the jar.

"That woman is rubbish. She's been spouting off the same theories for long enough. I can manage on my own." The statement is at least partially sound. She has been going on and on about my relationship with Sherlock for far too long. Mycroft snorts, resting his chin on his hand.

"John, I know it's hard, but you really should stay with it. It's been helping." He's treating me like a child, which isn't anything new. It still gets on my last nerve.

"It stopped helping a long time ago," I say abruptly, an edge in my voice that wasn't there before. I don't want to fight with Mycroft two days before Christmas, so I quickly drop the subject. We end up on other topics, but eventually, the question I feared manages to show its face.

"So, John, what would you like for Christmas this year?" There are so many things I could say here. A new watch, for starters. I always like receiving jumpers, though I feel like I have enough of them as it is. There's one present that keeps popping into my mind. It's the one thing I wish for every Christmas. I know that it's unrealistic. But he asked, so I'm going to tell him.

"Mycroft." My voice starts to quiver a bit. I can feel emotions rising up in my throat but I manage to swallow them back down. "The best Christmas present I could ever receive… is the gift of Sherlock Holmes coming home."

 

 

It's Christmas Eve today. Molly has taken it upon herself to put together a dinner at the flat. I haven't had Christmas Eve dinner at my own home in three years. I don't really know why she suddenly wanted to have the party here. I agreed, because she looked at me with such enthusiasm. Molly is a truly brilliant person. She has been the shining light on all of my darkest days. I would even say that Molly Hooper has become my best friend. I'm so very thankful for her.

While she and Mrs. Hudson take care of the cooking, I tidy up. Lestrade shows up around 6:30 and we talk for a bit. There haven't been many cases lately, so we've taken to talking about sports and politics. He's an incredibly interesting man. I would have never guessed it upon first meeting him. Through all of his hardships with his now ex-wife he has persevered. I wish I could be more like him.

We finally sit down to eat at 7:30. We talk about plenty of things; football, the weather, the new shop that opened three blocks down. None of us ever mention Sherlock in these kinds of situations. Christmas is a time for festivity and joy. We waste no time feeling sad. Even though my mind is clouded with thoughts of Sherlock constantly, I manage to restrain myself from bringing it up. I find it slightly odd when Molly is the one to say it instead.

"If Sherlock were here, he would most likely make fun of my cooking," she laughs sadly, fork clanking against the plate as she continues to eat. I feel like I've lost my appetite. The name alone makes me cringe in pain. Lestrade shoots Molly a look. It was probably something I wasn't meant to see. He's trying to tell her to shut up with his eyes, but it's not working. She carries on.

"And that ridiculous jumper, John! He would definitely pick on you for that hideous thing." She's right. It is hideous. I try to laugh, but I can't. A weird smile forms on my lips, nothing more. I am breaking. This is too much. My shell that I have worked so hard to strengthen is cracking.

Everyone is terribly silent now. My hands are shaking uncontrollably in my lap. Mrs. Hudson notices and reaches over, resting a hand on my trembling one. I hear Lestrade take in a sharp breath, his eyes on me. When I finally get the courage to look at him, he is smiling sadly, his face more sincere than I have ever seen it before. Molly is holding back tears, but she is grinning at me too. I can't help but think she looks so beautiful.

It all crumbles in that moment. The walls come down. The next thing I know, hot tears are trickling down my cheeks and I can't stop them. I might have been able to once. But I know there is nothing wrong with crying now. These are the people that I trust, so it's okay to let my guard down. I love them and they are my best friends.

"I miss him… so much…" I manage to choke out through my sobs. I put my hands over my face in an attempt to cover up my embarrassment for doing this here and now. I feel arms around my shoulders and I look up to see Molly. She is leaning her head against mine, silent tears streaming down her face. Lestrade grips my shoulder tightly, wearing a weak smile. Mrs. Hudson's hand is still clutching mine, her old eyes watery as well. We all sit there for a long time, just like that.

Once we finally manage to stop our sorrows, we resume our dinner and exchange a few light stories about things that don't really matter. When everyone finally leaves around midnight, I find myself trudging down the hall to Sherlock's room.

I open the door and a wave of stale air hits my face. It's been a long time since I've come in here. The first time was shortly after his death, when I was finally able to move back into the flat. I fell to my knees right there in the threshold, sobbing uncontrollably for hours upon hours. Ever since, I haven't been able to come back to this room. I am drawn to it now. I quickly cross to his bed, still unmade and messy, just as he left it. I run my fingers over the sheets, taking in the texture. There is a worn shirt lying there and I pick it up, my hands recognizing the familiar fabric. I bring it to my face, smelling it. I'm surprised that it still smells just like him, like tea and mint and smoke. Before long, I'm lying in his bed with the shirt clutched to my chest. It's the last remnant I have. Everything else has gone.

 

 

 _The doorbell is ringing, John_. I can hear it and I keep telling myself to answer it, but I don't want to get out of bed. _Answer it, John_. I finally muster up the strength to answer the door. It's Mycroft. He comes bearing gifts, it seems. As expected, he bought me a new, top of the line wristwatch. His mother sent a tin of cookies that she baked. They're mediocre, but it's the thought that counts. He hands me a final present. It's a small rectangular box wrapped in simple green paper. There is no bow or other fancy adornments. I get the feeling this is how Sherlock would wrap presents but I shake the thought from my head.

"Is this one from you as well?" I yawn, pulling the edge of the paper up.

"You could say that." He's being cryptic. It's annoying. I open the box to find a small phone. It has already been activated and set up. Mycroft knows I'm not very technologically savvy. I smile and thank him. He's off just as quickly as he came. Most likely, he is going to spend time with his mother.

Molly and Lestrade show up shortly after to bring their gifts. Molly is much more bubbly than usual, but it really helps to keep the atmosphere light. She hands me a hand knit scarf. I can't help but think it looks an awful lot like Sherlock's scarf. Lestrade has planned for us to go see a football game once the season starts back up. I hug both of them before sending them off.

Mrs. Hudson drops by with some homemade sweets and then quickly scurries off to be with friends for the day. As I sit in the flat alone, cup of coffee in hand, I can't help but miss him. While everyone is off with families and friends, I am alone. Not even my sister has called to wish me a merry Christmas. I feel unwanted.

I stagger back to Sherlock's room and doze off for a bit. I wake a few hours later to my new phone going off. It's a text from some number I don't know. I stare at it, my mind working to figure out who it could be.

_**I will be there soon to drop off a present. Please stay at Baker Street between 5 PM and 7 PM.** _

I can't shake this feeling that I get reading the message. It's concise and there is no hint of playfulness. It's strictly business. I wonder if it's Mycroft playing some joke on me, though I doubt it. It could be Anderson, though I doubt he would bring me anything for Christmas. I lose myself in my thoughts, trying to figure out the mystery when the phone goes off again. The clock says it's 5:43 PM. It's the same number.

_**Open the door.** _

The harshness of the statement feels familiar. It feels so very familiar that it hurts. The phone rings again.

**_John, open the door._ **

I start to walk down the stairs when the phone sounds one last time.

**_John. I'm home._ **

I nearly topple down the stairs after reading this last text. My entire being is shaking as I grip the cold metal handle of the door. I am so scared to open the door. I am so scared. I turn the handle and push it open.

I can feel my heart thrashing in my chest, tears pricking in the corners of my eyes. I try to speak, or even make a sound, but nothing comes out. Right here in front of me is Sherlock Holmes. The Sherlock Holmes, my Sherlock Holmes. He is standing perfectly still, his eyes fixed on me, a small smile on his face. I'm crying. I am bursting with something. What is it? Anger? Love? Happiness? Surprise? It's all of those things, wrapped into one little package with a pretty bow on top. I fall to my knees in the doorway, hands covering my tear stained face. I don't know what to say. I don't know if I can even speak. I realize after a moment that he's still just standing there, watching me. I wonder briefly if this is all some kind of horrible trick planned by Mycroft.

I feel large hands on my shoulders and when I look up, I see that it's Sherlock, his face an odd mix of emotions. I shiver, fall back onto my bottom, bring my knees to my chest, and continue to sob. I don't know what to say. Everything seems so dull and meaningless in this moment. Nothing I could say would convey how I feel.

"John," he says, bringing a hand up to my face and wiping a tear from my cheek, "There's no need to cry. I'm home now." He grabs my face and holds it between his hands. He's so close that I can feel his breath. He is analyzing me, his eyes roving over me.

"You haven't changed at all," he laughs, his voice catching a bit. His hands are starting to shake, his shoulders heaving with his deep breaths. Before I even know what's happening, Sherlock picks me up and swings me over his shoulder, carrying me up the stairs.

"S-Sherlock…!" I manage to stutter, flailing about. He doesn't say anything. He sits me down on the couch and then easily plops down next to me. He's crying too. I don't want to see him cry. I grab a bit of his shirt in my fingers, stifling sobs, and he takes it as an invitation to pull me into a tight embrace. Here we are, together at last, both weak from the strain the distance and time has put between us. It's not exactly the meeting I had expected. In fact, I had gotten to the point where I thought maybe I would never see him again. I regret having that thought now as I bury my face into his chest, jerking and twitching with sobs.

"Sherlock," I finally say, my voice thick, "Please don't ever leave me again." I feel his grip tighten.

"Oh, John Watson, I would never dream of it."

 

 

We have a quiet Christmas together, just the two of us. For the most part, we're silent, not wanting to ruin the moment with lame stories or gossip. Sherlock stays curled up against me for a long time, his face resting against my shoulder. I feel like we've been like this for hours before he finally speaks.  
"I love you, John," he barely whispers, smiling gently. I feel my cheeks getting flushed as he continues. "It took all this time apart for me to realize that I truly love you. I have never loved anyone. You are the first. You are special. Every night, I thought about you. I wondered where you were and what you were doing. I was always waiting for Mycroft's report. When he told me you had been out on a date, or with a girl, I felt jealous. I hated myself for leaving you…" He trails off, because he's started to sniffle again. This show of emotion is so uncharacteristic of him, but it's something I find myself loving about him.

"I love you too," I say, looking at him with a small smile growing on my face. Everything is new. We have finally broken the barrier between friendship and love. It only took faking his death and showing up three years later to realize those feelings.

He's leaning into me and when I look up at him, I can see that he has a mischievous look on his face. It's hungry, lustful. I have never seen him look at anyone in such a way. I'm rather taken aback.  
"What is it?" He doesn't answer me. Instead, he brings his lips down to mine, kissing them lightly. I can tell he's somewhat nervous, because he doesn't linger there for long. I bring my fingers to my lips as he pulls away, a look of hope splayed across his face. I can feel heat flooding every part of me. I drag him back down into a kiss by the collar of his shirt, my tongue flicking his lips playfully. I'm surprised to feel him doing the same, his tongue fighting mine in a battle that has no winner. I pull away, gasping, my ears and cheeks burning.

"Sherlock…" I'm trembling. I'm nervous, but I want him so bad. I have never wanted anything like I want him right now.

"John." He pulls at the hem of my jumper, his eyes staying locked with mine. I pull it off, exposing my bare chest. It's not anything he hasn't seen before, yet he looks at me with such wonder in his eyes that I can't help but chuckle. He's so new to this, yet so am I. I've admittedly never been with another man before.

His trembling fingers touch the scar on my shoulder, his lips parting slightly as he exhales softly. Right now, his touch is unbearable. I want his hands, his lips and his body. I want it all. A ragged breath escapes my lips as his hand traces over my chest. He's teasing me. He leans down over me, kissing me again, this time much more urgent. My fingers tangle in his curly black hair, our kissing becoming more and more passionate. I'm shocked when I feel him grind his hips against mine, making me gasp.

"S-Sherlock… stop teasing me," I laugh, my voice shuddering with my panting. He sits back and unbuttons his shirt, straddling me. We're both gasping for air, even though we've barely started. He throws his shirt on the floor and leans back into me, his lips on my neck. My hands move automatically to his hips, trying to pull him down closer to me. He resists, smirking, kissing my chin and then my jaw.

"I'm the one in control here, John," he breathes into my ear, then nibbles the lobe gently. I let out a small moan, my hips bucking slightly. He chuckles, his hands moving to the button on my trousers. I'm suddenly very self-conscious. He notices my resistance and it just quickens his pace. Before I know it, I'm laying naked on the couch, his eyes inspecting every inch of me. He seems pleased enough with what he sees.

"I'm sorry, I'm not…" I start, but he presses a finger to my lips, silencing me.

"Don't do that John, it's distracting," he says as he's undoing his own trousers. I'm suddenly very aware of how handsome he is. His skin is smooth and pale, small veins leaving raised pathways on his chest. His neck is long and slender, connecting to a set of broad shoulders. He is sexy, for lack of a better word, in some exotic and strange way. His eyes are narrowed mysteriously, making his features almost cat-like. He's grinning at me from under his tousled dark bangs, his white teeth shining in the light. My lips twitch as my mouth turns up into an awkward half-smile. He can probably tell that I'm a little nervous.

"You're shaking," he says sweetly, taking my hand in his and bringing it to his lips.

"I'm naked, and it's cold in here," I lie blatantly. Sherlock isn't buying it. He stands suddenly, holding out his hand.

"Then I'll have you in the bedroom," he says, licking his lips. I grab his hand, pulling myself up. He nearly drags me to the bedroom, his bedroom. It feels weird being here with him. It was only a few hours ago that I had lain down in this bed with the intent to take a nap, alone. Now, I'm being pinned down again the blankets and sheets. I writhe under him, biting my lip. My body is screaming at me to fuck him, to throw him down on the bed and take advantage of his inexperience. But he has already taken control of the situation, letting go of my hands just long enough to drop his trousers to the floor. He's leaning over me in just his boxers, one hand pinning my arms above my head, the other hand slowly making its way down my stomach. He finally reaches what he's been working towards. He looks at me curiously, as if asking for permission before continuing. I give him a little nod and he takes my cock in his hand gingerly. I gasp loudly, a low moan growing in my throat. I haven't had sex in a very long time. In fact, not since before Sherlock died.

His hand moves up and down slowly, a little bit unsure at first. He wouldn't know how to handle this, of course. As far as I know, Sherlock is still a virgin. He tightens his grip, but I can tell he's not confident with this.

"Use your mouth," I mumble, throwing my head back when he hits a sensitive spot with his hand.

"Yes, of course," he mutters, a smirk on his face as he lets go, only to drop down and come face to face with my erection. He stares at it, as if it's some sort of scientific experiment needing to be carefully observed and analyzed. It is so very like him.

He kisses the head, sending an electric shock through my entire body. I tense, waiting for him to go further. I catch him looking up at me, grinning. I'm certain he wants me to suffer. He lovingly kisses down the shaft, his eyes still fixed on my face. He's a natural at this. He licks from the base to the tip and I shudder, clutching the sheets in my hands. His grin grows wider at my reaction. I whine softly, waiting for him to keep going. I want him to keep going.

He takes the head into his mouth, his tongue flicking at the sensitive skin there. I let out a loud moan, my breathing starting to accelerate. I want him to make me come. I want him. I want him. He manages to take it all in his mouth, closing his eyes as he starts to concentrate. He starts slowly, moving his head up and down, trying to find the perfect rhythm. He knows he's found it when I take a sharp inhale, my knuckles white from gripping the sheets in my hands. He's barely started before I'm ready to come, so I stop him, sitting abruptly and grabbing his face to keep him from moving.

He gives me one last lick before taking it out of his mouth. He's got that same damn smirk on his face from before.

"I never took you for someone who wouldn't last long in bed," he chides playfully, biting his lip.

"Yeah, well, I haven't exactly had sex recently so I'm a little sensitive. Give me a break." I flop back down on the bed and he stands over me again, looking a little too mischievous for my liking. Before I know it, he's got me held down again and he's biting my neck. Hard. I twist my fingers in his hair as he kisses and nibbles all the way down to my bellybutton. He weakens his grip for one second and I manage to escape, grabbing his face as I sit up on the bed. He looks surprised and intrigued. Yet his expression is tempting. It's almost like he's saying, "Come on, I dare you.". My hands falls to his shoulders as I push him back slightly.

"It's my turn," I say, voice raspy from moaning. He sits up and I practically tackle him down on the bed. He doesn't put up a fight at all. I start to kiss him, hungrily and passionately, my hands caressing every part of him. I pull off his boxers and throw them across the room, taking him in my hand. He's a lot bigger than I thought he would be. I stroke him up and down, and the sound he makes just makes me go even harder. He digs his nails into my shoulders, moaning so loudly I'm sure Mrs. Hudson can hear him.

"Sherlock, be a little quieter…" I laugh softly, kissing his neck as I keep up my rhythm. His body is tensing up and I can tell he's really close to climaxing.

"John. John. John, stop. John, stop!" He grabs my wrist with his shaking hand, panting hard. He's got little beads of sweat trickling down his face. I keep my hand there, feeling the throbbing of his cock. It is exciting me more than I can even bare to tell him. He tugs at my hand, still gasping for breath, his eyes wide.

"Fine, fine," I say, taking my hand off. Not a second later does he take me down on the bed, shoving my legs apart in the process. I suddenly stiffen, realizing I've never done this before. I would be very disappointed if I didn't enjoy it. He licks his middle finger, very suggestively, and I whimper.

"Should we skip the formalities, then?" He grabs my thighs and pulls me upwards into his lap. I panic for a minute.

"It's going to hurt… you can't just…" I stop, because I'm stammering and I can't stop. He smiles impishly, spitting into his hand and lubing himself up.  
"Attractive," I snicker nervously, watching him intently. He presses the head of his cock to the tightened opening. I try my hardest to relax, taking deep breaths as he pushes himself inside of me. I let out one long, insanely loud moan and cover my face, suddenly embarrassed. He thrusts once. Then twice. He winces.

"John, relax a bit."

"I'm trying, but it's not as easy as you think. It feels really strange…"

"Do you want me to stop?" He looks a bit hurt and I quickly correct my statement.

"It feels strange, but it feels good," I groan, adjusting myself slightly, "Now please. Fuck me." That was all he needed. The smile on his face turns absolutely devilish and, holding my hips, he begins thrusting as hard and fast as he can. I squirm underneath him, the pleasure almost unbearable.

"Oh god, Sherlock… ah!" He hits the exact right spot. We gyrate our hips in unison, achieving the perfect rhythm. I dig my fingers into the mattress, but not for long. Sherlock grabs my hands, gripping them tightly as he grits his teeth, his body curving over me. I can tell he's right on the brink of orgasm. I start to stroke myself, but he slaps my hand away and does it for me.

I'm screaming his name, the bed frame slamming against the wall, the two of us so close to reaching that moment of pure bliss. I get there before he does, tensing my entire body as my cock throbs under his touch.

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Oh god…" My entire body shudders as I orgasm, hot cum spilling out onto my stomach and chest. He licks up the little bit on his hand and keeps thrusting, his face that of sheer concentration. He grabs my arms and forces me down as far as I will go onto the bed. He's gasping for air, sweat dripping from his nose. It is sheer ecstasy. I feel his entire body tense, the pulse in his neck throbbing erratically. With one loud grunt, he comes inside of me. The feeling nearly drives me crazy. He comes to a complete stop and lay down on top of me, wrapping his arms around my middle.

"John. That was the most wonderful thing…" He is still panting loudly, his sweaty face buried in the crook of my neck.

"You're right. It was," I reply, not able to move. He finally manages to remove himself from me and falls off to the side, arms still around me. I turn on my side, looking at his face. He is calm and serene in that moment. I can tell he is quite tired, his eyes closed and his breathing finally steadying. I kiss him lightly on the tip of the nose and he opens his eyes, a wide smile occupying his face. I can't help but smile back at him. I find one of his hands and take it in mine, intertwining our fingers.

"I love you," he says after a long silence, his blue eyes still resting on mine. Staring into them, I can tell he is being as serious as ever.

As we lay here naked, staring at each other lovingly, nothing seems more perfect. He is mine and I am his.

"I love you, too," I grin, bringing my other hand up to his face. He leans into my touch, closing his eyes again. After a minute, he dozes off. I close my eyes too, feeling emotionally and physically exhausted from this day. Soon enough, I've fallen asleep too, being held in the arms of the man I love.

This is the best Christmas present I could have asked for.

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of the first Sherlock related fic I ever wrote and I must say that I'm pretty proud of it. Despite it being terribly angsty and not accurate at all, I thought it was rather cute and fun to write.


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